


As Bad as Each Other

by Izzy_Grinch



Category: Kingdom Come: Deliverance (Video Game)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Bickering, Caretaking, Damsels in Distress, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Friendship, Gen, Henry can't fight for shit, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots, Love/Hate, Pre-Slash, Rivalry, The Prey mission, come guess who's a damsel, hunting with Capon, its a disaster truly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:21:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22293247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzy_Grinch/pseuds/Izzy_Grinch
Summary: Hans Capon doesn't know how to hunt wild boars, surrender to his enemies and accept someone's care. Henry, son of the smith, doesn't know how to fawn over noblemen, fight cumans and abandon someone who's in danger. However, they both do know how to get in trouble.
Relationships: Hans Capon & Henry
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	As Bad as Each Other

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Два сапога — пара (и оба левые)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21033566) by [Izzy_Grinch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzy_Grinch/pseuds/Izzy_Grinch). 



He doesn’t even have time to realize that he actually beat lord Capon in their argument about arrows, spears and boars: a spear, if thrown precisely, would kill in a wink of an eye, although one has to be really skilled at archery to pierce the brain on the first try, otherwise the enraged aper will shrill and skirr around for weeks, the witnesses of what they’ve just become with some generous assistance from the archer himself. He doesn’t even have a second to edge in with _“see, just like I said”_ because Capon darts off from where they’ve been ambushing and right through the bushes, lashing Henry’s face with springing branches, and disappears into the wild. Finally, Henry is left alone. However, Henry, much to his own dismay, feels some kind of a weird, unnatural responsibility; that noble prat, he tells himself, is _younger_ than him; and so he leisurely gets on his feet, caressing his burning cheek.

The silence of this forest is almost deafening. Of course, any huntsman or tracker, even the least proficient one, would say he is an idiot and the forest is full of wonderful sounds, enough to foretell the weather or find out how many forks on the antlers a young deer has miles away from here. Just one, Henry thinks, but the sharp one, always aiming right at his face. However, Henry is far from being a tracker, he can only track hares, not heirs, and only when there’s a lot of them and the grass is low. He looks at his obediently waiting horse, pats him on the neck, and holds by the bridle; the last thing he needs is to carry the boar’s carcass through the entire forest on his own back, he wouldn’t put it past lord Capon to do just so, Hans’ resentment for the early wakening is still fresh:

“Use your eyes for once, it’s nighttime, still.”

“But the sun is rising.”

“By God, _rising_ and _has risen_ are not the same, write it down somewhere. Although how would you, an ignorant fool you are, master such a thing? Get lost.”

“It’ll rise three times while you keep maligning here. And I can write better than some folks around these lands.”

In the crunching of the branches under the hooves, in the screaming of birds, which are all the same to Henry, the dogs’ barking is maybe only a trick of his imagination, but anyway he turns into the sound direction and strolls there, leaning down from time to time to snatch some berries: crimson as blood, they are scattered everywhere at his feet. That aper, he ponders, would be enough to feed every beggar and refugee from Skalitz, even his ears and snoot could make a decent broth; however, his ears and snoot will be given to the dogs, the offal − to the pigs, and the softest parts will end up on the dinner table, and Henry himself will stink like a foul boar for days.

He indifferently brushes off a spider web out his way. It starts to seem like the woods are endless, and lord Capon has missed for a purpose, because it’s not the game he is here for, but the ridiculous race through the bushes, as if he’s a yearling pup, who escaped the kennels just recently. Henry tells his thoughts to the suddenly too nervous horse, and while the latter slightly tugs at the reins in his left hand, he jerks his right one away, shocked, from the leaves of wild strawberries, for they are stained with the wrong kind of red. The blots are dark, glistening like oil, and he pictures a boar, rushing through there half an hour ago, foam on his fangs, eyes feverish and blood-shot. Ten more steps later he notices the splatters on the stomped mushrooms too, on a birch right under a fresh nick, and then he freezes, intensely staring into the distance, where not so far from him something gray is heaped on the ground, and deep down in his guts he hopes it’s just a bunch of boulders, not the animals, which were once wiggling their tails, running to him and licking his hands while lord Capon wasn’t looking. If there is a single thing Henry knows for sure it’s that the boars don’t carry swords, they only tear and rip flesh into rags with their blunt yellow teeth. His legs grow stiff, and here in the opening he is no better than a helpless wooden dummy: where to look? what to listen to? when to duck? His fear turns a crooked stump near him into Capon’s head, cut off the neck, and Henry leans − almost falls, unable to hold himself − on the sleek horse’s side; it’s thumping deep within like a big warm drum.

Of course, his first intension is to hop in a saddle and ride hell for leather away from here wherever he can, just as far as possible, as if he’s never been here in the first place. Because the thugs know these woods much better than a cabbage-head astride a highbred horse in a pretty harness, and it’s very, very unlikely for him to pay off with just his impudent attitude, the one lord Capon always forgives him. Henry doesn’t even want to think those might be not the thugs at all; although, who knows, maybe cumans will find his pathetic frills with a sword funny enough to not kill him right away? Just as funny as they found lord Capon? And what if he had wits enough to leave the fighting part for the dogs and escape? Henry waves this thought away for it’s impossible for such thing to happen, ever: Hans does nothing but asks for trouble; he jeered even at Henry’s hares just a minute after kindly accepting his own defeat:

“And so I wonder how on earth did you catch them? May it be so that you sung to them as well?”

“Hadn’t you ever been sung to sleep in your childhood?”

“Can you imagine? And I hadn’t been fed oats, too.”

“Now that’s a shame.”

He pulls out his sword, sheath clanking out of his clumsiness, and tiptoes somewhere, constantly looking around, ready to tumble down among the tussocks at the very sight of danger. The ground is trampled mighty well, and that’s the only thing he can tell about his surroundings. Then he smells smoke. And then there are voices. So he ducks and sneaks a little bit closer just to make sure. He barely breathes, he’s shaking when cumans’ gibberish goes in his ear and out the other, completely incomprehensible, and every leaf, crunching under his boots, thunders like that bridge he saw lifting right in front of him at Skalitz. Hans Capon is bound to a tree, pouring out such terrifying profanities people would be scared to even burn him for, if he was a witch. Henry lets out an exhale. He can’t see clearly from his hiding spot behind a honeysuckle, but it seems there’re two of them, wearing helmets and wrapped in iron from head to toe; a blacksmith would pay handsomely for such metal. But Hans is tied up, and Henry has only an old sword and a bow, which is better to hit someone with rather than try and shoot at least one of these cumans, while the second one would easily crush him in a wink of an eye. He should call for help, Henry thinks. It’s a long way to Rattay, so maybe he can gather some men in the nearest village and− but why should they care? Whose life is worth risking for a good-for-nothing son of a smith and a lad who can’t see beyond the end of his noble nose? The campers laugh aloud − at Hans, of course; they throw cones at him, almost roaring with joy when he hisses back about how he’s going to castrate them with his own hands, and quarter, and scorch, and throw them into a pit full of snakes. If only Henry could give him a sign... but Hans could go completely wild at this and give them both out, and end up dead, that idiot; both of them, actually.

Henry crouches around the camp, taking notice of the smoke for it to blow in an opposite direction − he’s so afraid that the cumans can smell him, like they’re some kind of bears. He lurks behind a trunk, jumpy and nervous, cold-sweating, and decides to wait till night. The ants are biting, his legs become numb after an hour of sitting, and he gets hungry. The camp life is as steady as it was, Hans’ voice turned hoarse and quiet, but no one’s paying attention anymore. One more hour later he finally gets a chance, when the bigger cuman leaves abruptly. His stomach drops when he realizes that the man disappeared in the direction he’s come from earlier; thanks whoever that he led the horse down into a small ravine, maybe the cuman won’t notice. Henry takes off his bow, checks the string, still very much unsure, and puts an arrow on it. He has no right to miss. His position is bad though, so he searches for the better one, but he lingers too much, and the cuman returns − with a couple of dog carcasses. No, they are not going to− Hans bursts into screams, and the bigger one responds to a spit, which landed on his armor, with a long, almost lazy blow into Hans’ stomach; it’s so heavy Hans falls silent − in the worst way possible, going slack, with his chin dropping on his chest. After this time flows so slowly that when the twilight finally comes, Henry is about to believe that lord Capon is done.

However, Hans recovers and, silently gritting his teeth, starts to stir and fidget, pulling at the ropes, until cumans shout at him and punch him in the face. Now it is too late to shoot, and too dark, with the bonfire dying out, and the shadows being deceitful. Henry’s cheek is slipping down the elm’s trunk he’s leaning at, while watching Hans’ saliva glinting bloodily like a thread of spider web, and the camp settling down to rest. He navigates himself with the help of the coals; when they have no more strength to produce fire, and their shimmer goes deeper and deeper inside with every minute, Henry makes his way from one tree to another, freezing after each step. Something gasps in the dark, Henry swallows hard, as if sending his own heart from his throat back to the ribcage, and finally, with a great relief he touches the numb wrists, though immediately reaches up to cover Hans’ gaping mouth with a palm. Lord Capon keeps talking no matter the obstacle; his lips are stick with blood.

“Is it you, Henry? Henry? You came? You came for me, Henry?”

His whisper is whistling, broken even, and Henry, who’s never “Henry”, but a “buffoon”, “smithy” and “hey you”, thinks that maybe he’s mistakenly picked and freed the wrong one − now that’s a funny joke − someone else’s lord. This one pulls him closer by the sleeves and looks him in the face worriedly, as if waiting for a trick or a cruel, wicked joke. God forbid, if he’s got wrong in his head, Henry thinks, tearing the gripping fingers off of him, for them only to grab him again. Then, probably convinced enough, Hans suddenly tugs him nose to nose and demands:

“Give me a knife, Henry. Give me a knife. I’ll cut their throats. Give me your goddamn knife!”

Lord Capon snatches Henry’s hunting knife from his belt and struggles out of his hands, and it’s impossible to deal with him without alerting half of the camp, so Henry just follows him, unsheathing the sword again, and presses heavily on the handle, so that if he doesn’t kill on the first try, he will at least pin the body to a sleeping bag under it, stopping the cuman from standing up. He also seems to close his eyes for a moment. There is a sound behind his back, a soft gurgle − not of a porridge, forgotten in a hearth, but of a swamp, sucking a hunter in. There is also one, two, three − seven slurping thuds, they go blunt when the knife hits bone. After it’s done, they wipe their blades on the tents cloth. With an angry kick Hans sends the pot flying, and with a convulsive moan or a whine he falls where he was just standing. Henry hauls him up awkwardly, confusing Hans’ arms with his own ones.

“You had an entire day just for yourself, haven’t you rested enough?”

“What a hope... I tied myself up in knots, thinking you stumbled upon a mushroom and broke your neck.”

“Ah, so you were just grieving over there, hugging that tree? Seems I got the wrong idea about you.”

Their laughter, nervous and ringing, surprises them both with the way it sounds. They stumble away into the night, the moon barely tracing the silhouettes of the trunks. Hans keeps staggering as if he has two left feet, and so does Henry, because they’re in a hurry, because who knows how many cumans are prowling in these woods, because Hans is hanging on him like an overloaded saddlebag on a limping donkey. It’s too dangerous to go looking for the ravine. After wandering blindly around the underwood they crawl under the roots of a fallen tree, into the dirt, so if someone comes to check the camp in the morning and try to patrol the area, they won’t be caught off guard. Henry’s lying motionless, overthinking every tiny noise in the darkness, which are likely to be nothing more but a flying ringdove or a weasel, tracking a mouse. Hans is breathing softly at his nape, and dazing off, Henry finally falls asleep, too.

By the time everything turns from bluish to dully grayish Henry has tried every word − and the swear ones as well − which are usually, as far as he knows, used to wake people up. However, Hans, who managed to snuggle so close during the night that Henry’s back grew wet under his gambeson, doesn’t seem to hear him. Suddenly Henry is scared and wondering if Hans can hear him at all. He’s not allowed to just smack him awake, right? Henry tries calling him again, and again, and finally Hans responds grudgingly with a grimace; he scrambles out the pit, using Henry’s offered hand for support.

“I was hoping, maybe you’d be smart enough to put me on a horse like this, so we could be home by n−”

“You want me to sling you over a saddle? It still can be arranged, you know.”

“Don’t forget yourself, blacksmith.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’d throw leaves over you and go to a village for a wagon.”

The horse is waiting where he was hitched, and right next to him there is Capon’s steed, with eyes wild and velvet nostrils trembling, when he lets Henry pat him. It’s harder than he thought − to help Hans into the saddle. Somehow he finally seizes an opportunity between Hans’ weak orders not to grab a lord’s “noble body” and guesses about some bones being broken “here, there and somewhere else”. They climb the slope in a confident stride, stirrups clanking against each other and knees bumping, because Hans is holding up not quite good, and Henry has to hold him instead. He ruins, he definitely does ruin that expensive doublet of his, grabbing a fistful of cloth at Hans’ waist like it’s a scruff of a puppy; however, Capon is too exhausted to complain. Quite a sight they are, Henry thinks, just add a boar with an arrow in its side, he almost says, but then only sighs and pulls slipping Capon up by his elbow. Rattay is almost within their reach.

Together with a guard on a look-out he hauls lord Capon to his chambers, where a healer, an assistant apothecary and − Henry grows cold, − a priest are rushing to already, and where he comes visiting every day. But first, he eats, of course, and suddenly a watery broth with barley tastes like it’s fit for a king, and Henry feels like one, when he breaks a sweetened flatbread in half.

Hans sleeps a lot, and Henry even thinks that he’s almost as good at it as he is at rousing sir Hanush to fury. Who knows, maybe it’s just another way for Hans to escape: you can’t get blood from the one who sleeps like a stone. Henry watches these healing scratches for so long that they seem to start moving and changing their places. Then he reaches with a hand and palms the pale forehead of Hans, and blinks stupidly as he notices a wary, very awake gaze directed at him.

“What is it you’re doing?”

“I... don’t know? I wanted to check if you’re dying or something.”

“Of boredom more likely. And you− enough with rambling and being useless, next time you better bring me something.”

Henry brings him a jug of milk, sneaking into the cellar of a still warm kitchen, and Hans props himself up on his elbows and asks if he’s out of his stupid mind.

“I heard it’s good for your bones.”

“Well then, if a smithy “heard” something... And I myself heard it’s good for your subjects to be whipped sometimes.”

“You can’t even fluff a pillow right now.”

While Hans defiantly slaps on the one pillow and then on the other, only drawing dust out of them, to be honest, Henry fills the mugs. Hans immediately shoves his milk back.

“You want me dead? It’s cold.”

“Me? Even if I wanted so, you’d be dead by your own hand by now.”

Henry patiently waits at the hearth, his face burning from the heat of crackling logs, his nape and ears − from his own insolence and a glare, poking him like a spear.

“Careful, it’s hot.”

“There’s ash everywhere.”

“Well, ash isn’t shi−”

“You should definitely put it on your coat of arms once you get one.”

The beds are soft here, nothing to compare with those in the barracks, or the hay, simply scattered around an attic, somewhere in a spidery corner. And so, without any caustic disapproval from Hans’ side, Henry dares to settle on his bed, at the footboard, and startles as soon as a palm smeared with cinder slightly slaps him across his face. For about a minute they mess around, pouring milk everywhere; then Henry takes hold of Capon’s leg which just nudged him into the ribs, and Hans twitches with his entire body, if not the entire bed, as if he’s been hit with a hot iron. Henry feels his heart failing for a second; he lets go of Hans’ ankle, and it quickly slips away, brushing against his knees.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“Shameless lie. I’m calling guards.”

“What?! No, I−”

“Pass the jug. Dear God, you fell for it like a child.”

When Henry returns with the rest of the drink, still distrustful, Hans stretches his legs across him and begins to gab amusedly about pheasant hunt, there’s just the spot right across the river, you know. And Henry thinks, lazily stirring milk in his mug, that maybe, just maybe Hans isn’t such a pain in the ass after all, if one gets used to it, and thoughtfully caresses an old bruise under Hans’ knee.


End file.
